In The Dark , With You

Vivian’s POV

The house smells like cinnamon and warm bread when I walk in.
Dad’s doing that thing where he pretends he can cook, even though we all know the bread machine does the heavy lifting. But I let him have his victory. He beams at me from the kitchen like he’s just invented fire.

“Hey, kiddo!”
His voice fills the house the way it always does—big, booming, a little too loud, but comforting in the way old sweaters are.
“Got the bread right this time. Bet you can’t guess the secret ingredient.”

“Is it... bread?” I tease, dropping my bag near the stairs.

He gasps, mock-offended. “Wow. Disrespect. I’m hurt.”

Mom’s at the dining table, laptop open, glasses perched at the tip of her nose. She looks up, gives me a distracted smile. “Hey, Viv. Good day?”

I shrug. “Yeah. Same old.”

Lies.
Because how do you explain to your family that your day felt like holding your breath underwater? That the boy you... like (love? No, too dangerous) makes you feel like you're clawing at locked doors in the dark?

“Evan’s in the garage,” Dad says, and just like that, my mood lifts a little.

I find my little brother exactly where Dad said he’d be—grease on his hands, focused on taking apart his old skateboard for the millionth time. He’s twelve, wild-haired, stubborn, and my favorite person in the world.

“Hey, grease monkey.”
He looks up, grinning. “Hey, nerd. Wanna help?”

I sit on the concrete floor beside him, letting the familiar buzz of the garage swallow me up. Out here, it’s easy to pretend everything’s okay.

We talk about his science project, about the math test he’s dreading. He doesn’t ask about the heaviness in my voice. Maybe he doesn’t notice. Maybe he does, but loves me enough not to press.

That’s the thing about this house.
There’s love everywhere. In Dad’s bad jokes. In Mom’s sleepy smiles. In Evan’s grease-stained hugs.
But even surrounded by it, I feel like there’s something hollow in my chest lately.

Of Adam.

And of Sofi.

God, Sofi.
Her words still echo in my head like broken records.

“You don’t even see it, do you? The way you talk about him. The way you look at him. Like he’s the only person in the world.”
“I can't just sit here and watch you throw yourself into something that’s going to hurt you. I’m your friend, but I can’t stand by and watch this happen.”

I told her she was wrong. I told her Adam just... needed time.
But deep down, I hate how much of her words stuck to me like burrs I can’t shake off.
What if she’s right?
What if I’m the fool in this story?
The girl who keeps pouring herself into someone who’s already decided to stay empty?

I feel the burn of unshed tears, but I blink them away before Evan can see.

I can’t cry about this.
Not here.

But it’s hard.
So hard.

Because when I’m around Adam, it feels like standing in the eye of a storm—so still and yet on the edge of being torn apart.

Maybe Sofi’s right and I’m delusional.

I hate that thought. I hate how heavy it sits in my chest, like a stone pressing on my lungs.

Me and Evan fall into our usual rhythm—me teasing, him pretending to be cooler than he is—but my mind isn’t really here. It’s stuck in the places I left it today.I sit with Evan in the garage until Mom calls us for dinner, pretending I don’t feel like a guest in my own skin.

That’s the thing about this house.
There’s love everywhere. In Dad’s bad jokes. In Mom’s sleepy smiles. In Evan’s grease-stained hugs.
But even surrounded by it, I feel like there’s something hollow in my chest lately.

But tonight, I stay quiet.

I've been lying on my bed for hours. I couldn't sleep. I hate how much I miss him.
Even when he’s right there, silent and cold and a thousand miles away—I still miss him.

I think about last day.
How I practically dragged him to that tiny coffee shop off campus, the one with the crooked tables.He said no at least three times.
Said he didn’t “do places like that.”
Said it was pointless.

But I didn’t let up.
And in the end, he came.
Sat across from me, arms crossed,  like the whole world was a joke he wasn’t laughing at.
And yet...
For a few stolen minutes, he let me talk.
Let me show him my world.
And when he finally—finally—smirked at something I said, it felt like catching a shooting star in my bare hands.

But it didn’t last.
It never does with him.

Now, as I pack my bag for the dorm, my stomach knots.
I don’t know what’s worse—facing Adam’s silence again or facing Sofi’s.
We barely said two words after the fight yesterday.
And I’m scared.
Scared I ruined something that mattered.
Scared I chose the wrong person to fight for.